Plastic Read Online Free PDF Page B

ask.
    â€œ Tick , tick , tick ,” she says, looking at her watch. She sits as far away from me as possible on the bench.
    â€œI know you’re mad at me about the whole boob-job thing. But I did some research”—she rolls her eyes— “and here’s the thing. It’s risky, and you’ll need more surgery down the road, and it won’t make you happy. In a few years you’ll like your body better—”
    â€œSays who?” she asks.
    â€œThis therapist—”
    â€œYou talked to a therapist about me?”
    â€œNot about you. About plastic surgery. About body image. About BDD.”
    â€œBDD?”
    â€œIt’s this thing where you can’t see yourself properly. Trust me, it’s weird.”
    â€œSo you think I have this BDD thing? That’s what you and this therapist decided?” She stands up and looks down at me. “You are such a jerk. Stay away from me.”
    She stomps off. I don’t go after her. She has a mean right hook. After dinner I go down to the basement and drag an old protest sign from the pile. I paint over something about gay marriage and write Keep Your Scalpel Off Teen Bodies on one side and I’m Not Deformed. I’m Unique on the other . Mom comes downstairs and watches me paint.
    â€œNever thought I’d see you with a sign in your hands,” she says. “Need any help?”
    I shake my head. “I’m just about finished. Unless you want to make another sign and join me?”
    â€œJoin you where?”
    â€œOutside Dr. Myers’s office. Tomorrow after school.”
    She picks up an old sign and twirls it in her hands. “It’s been a while,” she says thoughtfully. “And it’s a good cause.”
    â€œSo you’re in?”
    â€œLet me check my schedule. If I can make it, I will.”
    â€œThanks, Mom,” I say. “Do you think the drops of blood are too much?”
    She looks at the red paint dripping from the p in Scalpel .
    â€œNope,” she says. “It’s great. I’m proud of you.” She heads back upstairs, and by the time I finish the sign, it’s time for bed. Big day tomorrow.

    After school the next day, I race home and grab my sign, a bottle of water and a bag of Oreos. No sense getting weak on the picket line. Then I take the bus to Dr. Myers’s building. Getting the sign onto the bus is a bit tricky. A drunk guy says, “Right on, dude,” and raises a freedom fighter fist. A little girl asks her mother what s-c-a-l-p-e-l spells. The bus driver just sighs and says, “Sit at the back, son.”
    At the office building, there are a lot of people sitting outside having coffee at a café on the ground floor. I figure it’s a good thing. I need all the attention I can get. I stash my pack under a bush and hoist the sign up. I walk from one side of the building to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. After about the twentieth time, a woman going into the building stops me. She has that stretched, shiny look that Leah’s mom has. Too much Botox. Too many facelifts.
    â€œWhat are you playing at?” she says. Her arms are crossed over her breasts. Maybe she’s just had them done and she’s here for her follow-up.
    â€œExercising my citizen’s right to peaceful protest,” I say.
    â€œYour what?”
    â€œHis right to peaceful protest,” a voice behind me says. Mom. She has a sign. Hers says The greater the emphasis on perfection, the further it recedes . She links her arm in mine, and we stroll away from Botox woman. We’ve gone back and forth about four times when a security guard struts out of the building. He is wearing a fake-cop uniform, complete with walkie-talkie. His gut is almost busting the buttons on his shirt.
    â€œYou need to move along,” he says to Mom. “I don’t want to have to call the cops.”
    â€œNo, you don’t,” Mom agrees.